CRASH!
Two men burst through a stained-glass window and plummeted downwards.
One man screamed aloud.
The second man suavely raised an arm and caught the first as a parachute ballooned out of his sleeve.
“You saved me again!” cried Timothy Thicke.
Evan Edgelow smiled. “It’s what I do. Now, run!”
If you’re a fan of microfiction, then you’ll know that part of the challenge is telling a story in such a small space. If you really want to challenge yourself, you reduce the number of words available to you.
Enter www.SixWordStories.net. This website, run by Pete Berg, is dedicated to probably the shortest format of fiction I’ve ever encountered–stories told in exactly six words. You thought fifty words was hard? Try reducing your word quota by 88%! (Yes, I did the math on that. On a calculator.)
Pete and the site staff write some stories themselves, take reader submissions, and also share six-word stories they’ve found out in the Great Wide Internet, written by famous authors like Cory Doctorow, Orson Scott Card, and Ursula K. Le Guin. This includes the most famous, and probably first, six-word story, by Ernest Hemingway:
“For sale: baby shoes. Never used.”
There are some great stories on the site, so for some more microfictiony goodness, head over to www.SixWordStories.com now!
“Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all night!”
“Get off the stage!”
“What, you wanna start something?”
“That’s right! Fight me, funny man!”
They fought. The comedian won.
“Go ahead,” said the heckler. “Make a joke at my expense.”
The comedian shrugged. “I don’t want to ruin the punchline.”
Editor’s Note: This story originally resulted in the police breaking up the fight, but I decided that using that ending would be too much of a cop-out.
The enders huddled together confused, searching for a way to begin.
“Is it possible?” asked Denouement.
“I doubt it,” sighed Foregone.
“Ha!” exclaimed Period, “I bet you it’s already happened!”
“Let’s ask Paradox,” suggested Unresolved, though he knew as well as anyone that Paradox was absent.
Paradox just smiled knowingly.
Today’s Guest Story comes from Jeremy Petter. Jer is a member of LoadingReadyRun.com, an internet sketch comedy group that updates with a new video every Monday. LoadingReadyRun (LRR) recently launched www.commodoreHUSTLE.com to hosts LRR’s web TV show commodoreHUSTLE, which updates with a new episode on the first Monday of each month.
Two bodies sway across the living room, their dance accompanied by the soothing strains of Barry Manilow.
“Mmph,” says the woman. “Your chin is… prickly.”
“Yeah,” says the man. “I’m going for sort of an ‘anthropomorphized wombat’ look. Do you like it?”
“…Here’s a razor. Your choice: chin or throat.”
Editor’s Note: This story was based on a call on Twitter for a noun, an adjective, and a verb. @Sarahkitten responded with wombat, prickly, and dance.
Noon: the sun stood still overhead.
A man in a black hat faced a man in a brown hat.
“Take ten paces!” cried the sheriff.
One, two, three, four—BANG!
Brown hat fell. Blood pooled in the dust; black hat smirked.
BANG!
Black hat fell. “Filthy cheater,” said the sheriff.
“Tell us a story, Grampa!”
“Alright, kids! Once there was an old man with fourteen grandchildren. He was a grumpy man, so he took all their toys away and burned them. The End.”
“Thanks for the story, Grampa! Can we play dolls now?”
“Sorry, Susie. It was a true story.”
Cock gun, point gun, pull trigger. Only three simple steps separated George from vengeance. The stupid cow stood and blinked its heavy-lidded eyes, oblivious.
This isn’t difficult, George chided himself. Cock, point, pull.
He couldn’t do it.
It wasn’t his conscience. It was just hard to balance on one leg.
Muscles rippled under the skin of the runner’s mighty thighs.
BANG!
They were off!
He kept his head down, pouring all of his energy into each stride. No challengers were close behind, and only a few yards remained!
WHOOSH!
The rest of the pack swept past, moving the opposite direction.
“Put a catheter in that!” the veterinary Cleric called as he emerged from the Operating Room.
A woman and her son stood at the counter, holding a small, whimpering dragon.
“Looks like he’s got the mange,” said the Cleric.
“Can you fix him?” asked the boy.
“Maybe,” said the Cleric.